


Somewhen We Are

by TriangleEntheusiast



Series: Tales From Apocalypsestuck: Somewhen and Other Stories [1]
Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: A Bunch Of Sad Teenagers Surviving the Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Glitchstuck, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Apocalypse, Apocalypsestuck, Canon-Typical Profanity, Dave Being Ironic, Death, Did I Mention Death and Suffering, Eridan Being Lonely, F/F, F/M, Gen, Glitchstuck, Heavy Angst, Hiveswap is not tagged for no reason, I Imagine This Will Reap Mixed Opinions, Let's just say it's a spoiler, M/M, Multi, Mysteries, No Fanon, Noteable Lack Of Fanon, Other, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, POV Second Person, Post-Apocalypse, Reader-Interactive, SBURB, SBURB Glitches Out, SGRUB, Slightly aged-up characters, Some Graphic Violence, Some Horror Themes, Someone stop me, Somewhat, Suffering, SurvivalCanon-Typical Violence, TW: Violence, Troll Anatomy, Troll Culture (Homestuck), Vriska Being Awful, everyone suffers, game glitches, hiveswap - Freeform, lots of death, some very dark themes, you'll see why - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2018-12-24 14:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12014850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriangleEntheusiast/pseuds/TriangleEntheusiast
Summary: Your name is John Egbert, and you have the nagging suspicion that this isn't how things are supposed to go.---A rather discombobulating story, in which the four players end up on a corrupted, what seems to be post-meteor Earth.Expect deliberate lack of context on occasion.Extreme trigger warnings are in place.





	1. ACT 1==> Commence

**Author's Note:**

> Do heed the tags.

 

**John == > Be the brave young man who has just arrived in the medium...or something like that.**

 

**You're not supposed to be here.**

 

You've never played SBURB before, you don't know how it's supposed to play, but you have a strong feeling that you're **not supposed to be here**.

 

Your name is **John Egbert** and you have **no idea** where the hell you are.

You look around.

This isn't your room.

You're standing in what reminds you of one of those creepy abandoned houses you've seen in the movies.

It smells very dusty and musty in here. Kind of like old books mixed with that smell that construction sites have. Yeah, that was a bad analogy. Moving on. The walls have holes in them and the paint is peeling. You can't really tell what colour said paint used to be, it's so dirty and weathered. There's a hole in the ceiling, where a single bright sunbeam pours into the otherwise dusty and dark room. The window is broken, sharp pieces of glass littered around the floor nearby it, half-buried in piles of sand. There is lots of sand accumulated in the corners and by the window, as well as underneath the ceiling hole.

Weird. You wonder how it all got there.

You continue to examine your peculiar surroundings.

There's some torn paper tacked to some of the walls. It's faded and dirty, so you can't really make out what used to be on it. You try to take one of the papers off of the wall, so you can bring it into the light.

oh.

The delicate and dust-like paper flakes in your hand. That's kind of unfortunate, you sort of wanted to get a closer look at it. Oh, well. You wipe the paper dust on your pants, and survey the room once more.

 

This room looks strangely familiar, for some reason.

Your eyes fall on the old musty bed sitting in the corner of the room. It looks...very familiar.

 

You step closer to it, to get a better look.

The bedspread has a faded pattern on it. Upon closer inspection, you see that the bedspread has a ghost print on it, you can just make out the shapes of them.

Wait.

...oh.

You take a few steps back, wide eyed. You look around once more, frantically. You can't believe you didn't notice it before. The faded posters. The ghost-patterned blankets on the bed. The general same layout as your bedroom.

This isn't your bedroom.

But it is.

Upon this startling and unnerving confirmation, you sprint to the window to look outside.

It's your street. But not.

A lot of the houses are demolished and crumbling, others simply half-buried in sand. Craters litter the ground, the rocks that made them long gone. You can see some tall, ruined buildings in the distance, as shadows in the haze that all the sun and dust makes. It's eerily quiet, the only sounds outside being the hollow echoing of the wind, and a fast paced noise that you half-recognize is your own heavy breathing. A gust of strong wind hits you, and you have to shut your eyes, because it's so dry and dusty. You sneeze, the sound of it echoing around your empty neighborhood. You're starting to feel a bit antsy.

You scan around outside for any movement, but see none. It's all still. Too still. No people, hell, not even an animal. Not that you can see, anyways.

You start feel a twinge of what you recognize as an unusual feeling of dread.

 

You slowly turn away from the window, with a shaky sigh. Your bespectacled eyes look once again upon what apparently used to be your bedroom.

This is after the meteors, isn't it? That would explain a lot. Except it doesn't. You're pretty sure paper doesn't go brittle that quickly. Hell, the last thing you remember was preparing to enter 'the medium', and before that happened, you were perfectly fine, and everything was all good and normal. Your room was new looking and certainly didn't have a hole in it's ceiling. Something is very wrong, here.

 

You make your way over to your dust-covered computer, instinctively, and try to turn it on. You need to contact Rose. Or Dave. Or Jade. Any of them works, you just need to talk to them, to find out if they're okay, and maybe see if they know anything about this very unnerving situation.

_Come on, come on, dammit...come on._

It doesn't work.

Yeah, you should have seen that one coming.

You don't give up, though.

After the computer still stubbornly refuses to turn on, you turn away from it in frustration, and pace around your demolished room.

No. No. Come on. You've got to stay calm. Deep breaths. 

You continue pacing, running over ideas in your head, when suddenly, your foot collides painfully with something solid and heavy.

You yelp in pain, hopping on one foot for a few moments, while muttering curses. As the pain in your foot dies down, it occurs to you to inspect what, exactly, you accidentally kicked. You look down, and see a hammer, half buried in a sand pile, and obviously the thing that was responsible for you injuring yourself. You bend down and pick it up. It might prove to be useful, later.

You've seen enough movies and have enough common sense to know that it's a good idea to keep a weapon around in a situation of this kind.

Having something to defend yourself with mildly lessens your uneasiness.

You notice something, a piece of paper wrapped around the hammer's handle. It looks...newer than the rest of the various paper you have around your room, and seems to have something written on it. You step into the light, so you can read it.

It's a handwriting you don't recognize, and it says:

_In the box._

 You immediately look up from the note, and scan around the room for a box. Box...box...perhaps it was referring to your trunk? It's worth a shot. You have no idea what to do, now, but are leaning towards venturing out, soon. May has well take all the useful things you can find, assuming that this note was referencing a useful thing. You make your way to the trunk, and try to open it.

_Oh, right._

It's got a lock on it. You'll need the key to get into it, and find what whoever left this note for you thought was noteworthy.

Yes...

_Fuck that._

What kind of video-game-character-brained moron has the time for that? Honestly.

You swing your hammer and bash the lock a couple times, until it looks sufficiently weakened, then take the sharp end of your hammer and pry the chest open. The lock breaks with a snap, and the box's lid swings open and hits the back wall, due to the sheer force you used on it. Triumphantly, you take a look inside the chest.

Huh? How did that get there?

There's several objects that you don't remember ever owning at the bottom of the trunk.

One of them is an odd looking laptop computer, quite dusty, but nothing like how dusty the rest of the room is. It looks rather beat up, with what looks to be a makeshift patching job done on it. It's covered in modifications and other gadgets grafted to it, like something out of a movie.

The second object is a patched up backpack, which looks like it could carry a decent amount of things.

The third object is a large blue shawl, a bit tattered at the edges, but looks like it could protect you from dust. 

You take all three objects out of the trunk to examine them more. There's no hints of where they came from. Oh, well. Whoever put them here was awfully considerate, and that's nice, you suppose. You're tempted to check and see if the laptop works. After setting it down, you blow the dust off of it and open up the lid. Some of the keys have the letters rubbed away from use, with sharpie drawn on to replace them. You wonder who owned this before you. Hmm.

You press the 'on' button. The screen is glitching out...oh, wait, yes...it worked. It's on.

It begins to start up, and you watch it intently, as you don the blue shawl. It's made of a rather light but tough fabric. Soft, too. Huh.

You get the backpack ready to go, and tie the shawl securely, so the wind won't blow it away. After checking in with everyone, if they have functional evices, you plan to head out. You feel all too uneasy, here.

Ah, yes. The computer is done starting up. Its flickering and damaged screen clearly reads:

_Welcome, User._

_..._

 

 

**Rose== > Be the resourceful girl with a dilemma **

You are very sure that this is not how this "SBURB" is supposed to play.

Your name is  **Rose Lalonde** , and all you have to say about the current predicament is that it is... **extremely unfavorable**.

Regardless, you think you shall try to make the best of it, if this is how things are going to be.

You think it would be of help if you were able to contact the others, but you cannot get the laptop you have scavenged to work. Logically speaking, it has no power source, so one would assume that it wouldn't function, but you thought to irrationally check it, anyways. One never knows.

When you first arrived here, wherever and whenever this is, you noticed quickly that you appeared to be standing in a post-disaster version of your bedroom. Interestingly, though, some things were not how they were when you had left them. That, you are sure of.

 

How peculiar. It was as though someone had gone through some of your things. Not hastily, though, like you would expect of someone attempting to survive in what you could call a 'post-apocalyptic wasteland'. Still, the organized mess of your room was not how you arranged it, on usual. You wonder who could have been in here. Where are they now? Are they still alive? Did the things they took aid them?

You shake those inferences out of your head. Now is not the time. The current predicament is your own survival.

You look over the various trinkets you have accumulated, which you suspect will be of use in the future.

There's a bag that you patched up, which has a decent amount of storage.

There's also your knitting needles. They could be used as weapons, with some modification. They're all you could find, in terms of potential weaponry.

You also found a jacket, that looks like it could protect decently against the strong wind you felt when you peered outside. It doesn't seem too aged, so it must have been left here by someone. hmm.

Other useful things you have found include a pocket-sized wiring kit, an eerily new-looking blanket, and a glass ball.

Why the glass ball? Well, they can be used to magnify light, which could be very useful. This isn't the only factor, though. You feel strangely attached to the orb. You don't know why. It's...very peculiar. You think you've seen it before. Perhaps not, actually. You cannot remember one instance before now of seeing it. It just feels familiar.

You're loosing your train of thought.

Where were you?

Oh, right. Yes.

You were mentally going over your items.

What else is there?

The broken pocketknife (which you think you may be able to fix)...the bullets (but sadly, no matching gun)...

Oh, and last but not least, of course, there's the laptop.

That brings you back to your dilemma.

You need to find a way to get this piece of utter trash to function.

 

You pace back and forth, trying to formulate some kind of way to go about doing this.

 

Let's see...

 

No, that won't work, the outlets are dead...

 

Maybe...no...that's ridiculous. You mentally slap yourself in the face.

 

 

Perhaps...yes.

Yes, you've thought of something, and you think it just might work. 

You gather your various useful items, packing them into your bag. Well, excluding your jacket. You put that on. Yes, you are sure you have everything. Good.

You don the bag, and begin to make your way out of what used to be your house.

 

You've already looked around here, so you don't bat an eye at the peeling paint on the walls and sand piles in the corners, nor the musty smell lingering around the place. It is irrelevant.

The plan you have formulated is quite simple. You are going to make your way up to the nuclear power plant, not too far away, where you will then attempt to hook your laptop up to a power generator. After that, you will make an effort to make contact with one of your friends. If you cannot, for whatever reason (likely they not having functional computers), you will proceed onwards...this place makes you a tad uneasy. You can't place why.

You know it's irrational, but it doesn't matter. Logically, you should keep moving, anyways, feelings aside.

The dry wind whips your pale hair around, as you adjust the collar of your jacket, before pulling the hood over your head.

You're scaling up a rocky hill that juts out behind your house, tucking your face into the collar a bit, so it shields your face from the rough sand being blown towards it.

You look up towards the power plant, still shielding your face from the strom and squinting in the bright light, as you estimate how long it's going to take you to reach your destination.

It isn't too far, but you'e still in for quite a hike.

You pull the backpack up on your shoulders a bit, and look forwards again, another blast of wind hitting you, the sand it carries scraping your skin like little airborne needles.

...

 

 

**Dave== > Be the guy who is handling this well**

 

Okay, yes, this situation is shitty, but that doesn't mean you can't overcome it.

You're a Strider, after all.

Your name is  **Dave Strider** , and you have this **all under control**.

You're ~~pretty sure.~~

Completely sure.

Bro's gone. You couldn't find him anywhere in this weird, old, and shitty version of your house.

No matter. You're an independent person, and you know just what you need to do.

It's just like one of Egbert's shitty post-apocalyptic movies. You're going to play survivor for as long as you can, which, you're sure, is a decent while, really.

You  _are_ a Strider, after all.

 

You turn away from the desolate landscape you were surveying, as yet another one of those shitty dusty wind gusts hit you, making your hair fly and your clothes flap around.

 

Yep.

 

The wind's strong up here, on the roof.

 

You sigh, and make your way back downstairs, to gather the shit you think you'll need for this fun little adventure.

Maybe you should be reacting more to this situation. You get the feeling that this should be more devastating to you than it is. Maybe you shouldn't be accepting it so simply, like it's just an ordinary thing. Maybe this is how you deal with change. Or maybe you're overthinking shit, like Lalonde does. 

You kind of wish you could talk to Lalonde.

Or Egbert.

Or Harley.

That'd be cool and good.

Not cool and good for you, though, is he fact that none of the computers you've tried had worked.

You mean, it would be definitely pretty science-defying if they did, but for some reason, you tried anyways. 

Rose probably wouldn't have done that.

Oh, well.

Your thought process is getting a bit off topic, you think, isn't it?

Yeah.

Whoops.

You return your focuses to survival shit, not your friends.

First things first, you'll need a weapon. If there's _one_ trope you know _all_ about, that's always in post-apocalyptic situations, it's murderous things lurking around. That, and the dog dies, which is terrible. Fucking terrible, and _very_ unnecessary. They could have killed off the annoying kid that only exists for sob stories, or that one flat character that's just there to be a love interest, but no. They _need_ to kill Fido the Good Boy. Assholes. You shake your head at those movie writers's assholery, while making your way to the fridge, where Bro would store his shitty swords.

The halls look pretty awful. The house in general looks pretty awful. There's sand everywhere, and fuckin' holes in the ceiling. When the wind blows, you can hear it echo weirdly around the house, as it pours in through the various holes in the walls. Some of the tiles creak when you walk on them, and part of you is a bit concerned that they might give way, so you _Stride_ lightly. You try to keep your footing in the dim light, avoiding the broken shitty swords and other hazards that litter the ground. Your Bro's puppets...well, time hasn't done them well. That shit's nightmare fuel. You pass a few of them, sitting on a random table. Their half eroded faces seem to be following you a bit.

You don't pay them much of a glance.

There's nothing important, here.

You keep walking, ignoring the unsettling feeling of being watched. Striders don't get anxious.

There's the fridge. You open it up, standing off to the side so you don't get fuckin' sworded. The shitty fridge's door falls off. Figures.

Yes, there they are.

Those shitty swords.

They're a bit aged, but actually in okay condition.

You pick one of them up, and swing it around.

Yep. This, sir, is a sword. This legendary piece of shit.

You find one of Bro's many sword holsters, and attach it to your belt. Now you can become one with the legendary piece of shit. You are the legendary piece of shit. You are the same entity. What a time to be alive.

Now, what other shit will you need...

Ah, yes. Somewhere to carry the other shit you'll need. You look around, and eventually come across one of Bro's ultra-durable duffel bags. Oh, yeah. This will do.

You empty the creepy and eroded puppets out of it, and then search for more shit to bring, since you sure as hell aren't staying in ~~terrifying~~ shitty puppet land.

Speaking of puppets, you realize that you haven't seen Cal around here.

That's a good thing, though.

A very, _very_ good thing.

You pack some more shit that looks helpful, not paying it much thought. Going with your gut. You trust your gut.

Something catches your eye.

There's a small, shiny object sitting on a table nearby you, standing out against the ruined house, a hole in the ceiling bathing it in light. You walk over, to examine it. It's a...pocketwatch. Huh.

There's something about it, though. What is it? 

Ah, it looks too new. That must be it. Yeah, that is weird. 

Upon closer inspection, you see that the watch isn't behaving normally. It's not ticking, instead, both hands are pointing in the same direction, no matter which way you turn it, like some sort of compass.

You think you'll hold on to this.

You feel watched, again.

Cal? Is that you?

Okay, jokes aside, you maybe are minorly unsettled.

What's that noise?

...

 

 

 

**Jade== > Wake up**

 

Command failed.

You're still asleep.

 

 

 

You can't really be someone who's not awake, can you? No, not really.

You'll just have to wait.

 

 

 

**???== > Enter name**

 

Command failed.

 

 

**???== > Do a thing**

 

You stand alone, in pitch darkness, hunched over a broken computing device, hissing curses to nobody, as you anxiously pry your gaze away from the thing, in order to scan the darkness for movement.

Nothing, so far.

You'd know, if there was.

The dark poses no challenge to your vision.

 

Still, you feel like something is going to happen soon.

 

Your breathing is heavy as you stare at the flickering screen in front of you.

 

_Come on, come on..._

_Work, fuckdammit, WORK._

 

Your balled hands are shaking like the rest of you, mostly with dread and anticipation.

 

You don't want to go out like this.

 

The device's screen flickers again, all staticky and stuttery.

Wait, what's it doing, now?

 

...

...

...

_Welcome, User._

 

 

You let out a shaky, hissed breath of relief and triumph, gripping the sides of the device screen tightly.

 

You're in.

 

Oh. It seems someone is online.

...

 

 

 

 


	2. MEOW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The series Pilot was well received, so it continues.
> 
>  
> 
> Please note that, as the work title suggests, not all of the character entries are set at the "present" time. Some may be set in the future or past, varying in exactly how far they are from the present. It may not be specified exactly when they take place, but with some logic and more story knowledge, events can be placed on a timeline. Yes, it's supposed to be somewhat discombobulating.

**Jade== >** **Wake up**

 

_MEOW._

 

Your eyes snap open as you breathe in sharply, completely and utterly disoriented.

You must have fallen asleep again.

 

You suddenly become aware of the fact that you're holding something.

You're leaned face-first against a wall, clutching a crayon, arm still lifted, as though you were in the middle of drawing when you suddenly awoke.

 

Slowly and cautiously, you stand up and survey your surroundings.

...

Your name is **Jade Harley** , and you're standing in your **greenhouse**. Sort of. This  _is_ your greenhouse, right? It looks like it, somewhat. Except your greenhouse doesn't have a ginormous hole in its cieling. This...place does. Your greenhouse, or at least how you remember it, also doesn't have papers strewn across the floor haphazardly, or look like something out of a scary movie.

Unnaturally huge overgrown vines fill the room, so densely that only a relatively little bit of light actually gets through the dirty glass that is apparently your greenhouse's walls. The glass walls, themselves, are so dirty on the outside that you can't even see through them, though yellow-tinged light manages to shine through, illuminating the place eerily. You slowly turn around, taking in the bizarre and rather unnerving room. You're now facing the wall that you were leaned against.

Oh, dear...

The walls are completely covered with green crayon scrawlings of the same word, repeated over and over and over again:

_MEOW_

Well...that's not...creepy at all...

You look back at the stub of green crayon in your hand, and back at the disturbing mural. The words are all in your handwriting, bright green and rushed-looking. Definitely bugged now, you look down at the mess of papers strewn across the ground. They bear the same repeated word, this time written in black pen. You don't recognize the handwriting.

You take a step back, very unnerved and wide-eyed, and you recognize the sound of your own anxious breathing and heartbeat. You don't remember anything about this and you have no idea what happened, just that it's sure as _hell_ freaking you out.

Okay, okay...

You need to stay calm.

You need to calm down.

There has to be an explanation, a reason, _a story behind all of this._

Where's Bec?

You want Bec.

His presence would probably make you feel a lot better right now.

Maybe you should call him.

Yes, that sounds like a good idea.

...

 

You ready your vocal chords to call him, but no sound comes out. You aren't mute or anything, you just...you can't. A very anxious part of your brain is telling you that loud noises are a bad idea; that you could attract unwanted attention from something that most certainly isn't your unusual but friendly best buddy.

Maybe it's irrational, but when your brain is this nervous about this, when you have such a dread-like feeling in your gut, you just can't override it. Your very brain won't let you. 

...Maybe it's best you listen to it.

You quickly realize that standing here and panicking helps absolutely _nothing_ in the slightest. Your grandpa would be very disappointed in you. You've got to do something _productive_ , dammit.

The first thing you should probably do is find out exactly what sort of situation you'll be dealing with. It'll definitely be of help to know what to prepare for. You go about this by moving from your little corner of the room, and walking around, examining your surroundings more closely while avoiding the broken glass that's littered around the floor. The huge vines make walking through here rather difficult, almost like a maze, with you ducking and stepping over the flora that has completely taken over your greenhouse. At long last, you find the door out of here.

Should you leave that way? It looks dark, and you still feel very uneasy.

Should you even leave quite yet? There could be something you've missed around here. You feel like there is. 

Hesitantly, you turn back to the rest of the vine-filled room. The cabinets lining the back wall of the room grab your attention.

You walk over to them, looking behind you every few steps, in case something dangerous tries to sneak up on you. You pull one of the rusty metal drawers open, and see a flat box, where your backup lab coat is stored, for sanitary purposes. You'e surprised that it's still here. You unseal the box, and take the coat out. It comes to your mind that it would probably be a good piece of outerwear, to wear after you get out of here. Judging by the warmth you feel in here, you're going to guess that it's rather sunny, and a white coat, which reflects sunlight, would probably keep you decently cool. The coat also has many pockets lining the inside of it, all of varying sizes, which you think would definitely be handy for storage purposes. You put on the coat.

It's a little shorter on you then you remember it being. That's very strange. Ah, well. It's possible that you misremembered. You open and go through the other rusty drawers and cabinets, to see if you can find more useful things. So far, in terms of useful things, you've found some bullets of decent condition, a rifle and shoulderstrap, a plant grafting knife, and a lunchbox with an atom symbol on it. 

You put the bullets and capped grafting knife in two of your many pockets, and put the rifle and trap across your shoulder. You feel a little more secure, now.

Wait...

You remember something.

The lunchbox, if you  _are_ remembering correctly, isn't really a lunchbox. You open it up to test your guess.

You're right. It's a laptop computer with an atomic battery. You've got a means of contacting your friends, assuming they have means of contacting you back!

That is, of course, if it works.

You press the  _on_ button. The screen flickers, then begins its start up, with the black loading screen. You sigh in relief. At least there's something familiar, here.

You patiently wait for the computer to boot, and happen to catch sight of your reflection in the mostly-dark screen.

...

You almost have a heart attack. You look like you...but not you. You look at least two years older, still you, but very unfamiliar at the same time. This is very alarming, but explains the whole lab coat size thing.

How long were you asleep? You couldn't have slept for  _years_ , that's impossible, you'd have starved to death. Perhaps it was a case f amnesia? Are a whole two or so years missing from your brain, totally wiped? The last thing you remember, and rather vividly, is trying to enter that damned game, and you were _thirteen_.

An alarming possibility crosses your mind. 

The computer has stopped booting, but you have a new priority, now. You shut its lid, putting your belt through its handle, and scramble to find a way out of this room. You dart into the dark hallway that you'd been previously hesitant about entering, only to find it collapsed. Fuck. Shit.

You run back into the greenhouse room, and swiftly pull one of the rusty drawers out of the cabinet, your own panicked heartbeat roaring loud in your ears. Without so much as a second thought, you hurl the drawer at the glass wall nearby, which shatters instantly, more dirty shards joining the already present broken glass on the floor. You step forwards slowly, catching your breath and calming down, as you look out the newly created hole in the wall, the light shining out of it blinding, thanks to your eyes being adjusted to the greenhouse's dim light. You shield your eyes with your arm as you step out into the greenhouse, half-recognizing the ground to feel much like hard-packed sand beneath your feet. You immediately feel strong, dry wind blast at you from the side, as you slowly remove your arm from your adjusting eyes. Your eyes widen at the sight before you. You and what used to be your home is standing on a sand-covered rock, jutting out in the middle of a mostly flat expanse of desert. Other windswept rocks jut out of the otherwise level horizon, but you can't see any other structures or buildings around, just your demolished house.

You don't know how to react, so you just stand there a bit, the wind making your coat and long, dark hair flap around.

You feel...rather alone.

You've always liked your alone time, but this...no.

It's probably been years, who knows what became of your friends?

Still unsure about how you should be dealing with this, you fall to your knees, still gazing off into the monotonous horizon, your hair obscuring your vision a bit. There's nothing around but rocks and sand, utterly desolate and dead. Yep.

It's lonely out here.

 

...

 

 

 

**Rose== > Admire your overwhelming success**

 

It took a while, but you have done it. You have successfully modified your laptop's battery, using some remnants of material from the power plant's laboratory. The laptop is working, currently taking its time to boot up. You decide to look around the room you're currently in, now, while you wait.

There's a large hole in the wall, giving you a pleasant view of your ruins of a house below. The cement that the building seems to be mostly composed of is crumbled in some areas, large chunks of fallen concrete laying around like synthetic material boulders. Most of the windows on this wing of the plant are intact, with an exception of the broken one downstairs that you used to get into the building in the first place.  You didn't break the window, but you're convinced that someone else did, before you arrived here. There's a rock that was clearly used to break said window, sitting in the middle of the broken glass, rather obvious that it was thrown by someone. That's downstairs, though. Still, up here where you are, you've seen other signs of someone being here before you. Bullet shells. You'd found old bullet shells, which had both alarmed and intrigued you. Intrigued, because they meant that someone else indeed was here. Alarmed because, well, people don't fire bullets for no reason. Something caused whoever this was to need to defend themselves, and you're a little concerned on what that was. Another sign of someone else's past presence here that you'd found was some dried droplets and splatters of an odd liquid on the walls and floor. It almost resembles blood, but it's a very dark red, almost black. It looked black to you when you first saw it. You're not sure if it's blood or not, but if it is, it sure as hell isn't from any kind of animal  _you_ know.

You continue looking around, since the damn laptop hasn't booted quite yet.

Are those...campfire ashes, there on the ground, in the shadow of a concrete chunk? You step over to them and bend down, to closer inspect them. Yes, it looks like it. Interesting. The ashes looks like they've been here a while, but they still show that at one point, someone took refuge and camped out here. Something else catches your eye. On another concrete chunk, there's some round burn marks of ash, that look as though they've been there as long as the campfire ashes. It appears as though someone snuffed a cigar on this chunk of concrete. Interesting.

Yes, you're very certain that there were some people here, and something drove them out. 

Oh, your computer is finished booting. Now, time to attempt to make contact with one or more of your friends, if they have means to receive your messages.

If not, you get going. You're not waiting around to find out what drove the renegades away.

 

**John== > Do a thing**

 

_Welcome, user._

 

You're in. There's no password, you just head straight to the computer's rather simple desktop. There's only four shortcuts on the computer, and its wallpaper is plain black. Interestingly enough, one of the four shortcuts is Pesterchum, which looks amusingly out of place. Two of the other three programs aren't recognizable at all, with their names made of a bunch of numbers. The last program isn't labeled, and the icon is a horned smiley face, plain black. You're tempted to visit the other three programs, but you decide on keeping your priorities, by opening Pesterchum. Oh. That's...very weird.

It's already logged in to your chumhandle. You can see _ectoBiologist_ rendered in blue on the flickering screen. That's a little creepy, but okay. You don't question it. There are lots of things you aren't questioning right now, because you don't want to get (stupidly) panicked about them. You take a look at your chumroll. You get a bit of a sinking sort of feeling. None of your friends are online. Maybe they're just not online right  _now_? Luckily, there is a way to find out if any of them are contactable. If you check the online times of everyone, you'll be able to know if they've been on Pesterchum recently. If they've been on Pesterchum recently in the, say, last hour, they're probably contactable, and you'll just need to wait! You check Rose's handle first.

You stop dead.

Wait, no. That can't be right. That can't be right at all.

On the _online times_ miniwindow, it says that the time Rose was online last is... _three years ago._

Oh.

This has to be a glitch. Some error. You check Dave's handle next, getting kind of frantic.

Dave was also last online... _three years ago_.

Jade?

_Last online: three years ago._

Oh.

_Oh._

You half notice your hand shaking a bit above the keyboard.  _Three years ago_. How is that possible? Dreading what doing so may reveal, you cautiously minimize the Pesterchum window, so you can see your reflection in the black wallpaper of the desktop. If you had stopped dead earlier, you're stopping even deader, now. Your reflection definitely does  **not** look like how it did when you last saw yourself in the bathroom mirror, back when your house was normal looking and okay.

 _Three years ago_.

You look about three years older, which is such an alien thing to see. No. No, this can't be right. The computer must be glitching out. Your reflection must be distorted by the messed up screen. It has to be. There's no other explanation.

No, no, no, no, no. Wrong.

You race out of 'your room', intent on looking at your reflection properly in the bathroom mirror, when you stop dead for the third time. The hallway is collapsed into a sinkhole, which means you're not getting to the bathroom, and certainly not out of your house that way. You step back into your room, and look down at your hands. They look unfamiliar yet familiar. You don't know how you didn't notice.

You look down at your feet.

You're definitely taller than you remember yourself being; there's much more distance between your eyes and the floor.

It's been three years.

No. You refuse to accept this. It just...it can't be true. It just can't.

You slowly sit yourself back down on the floor in front of the laptop, feeling very conflicted and very confused.

It can't be true.

But...if it is, what happened to your friends? Are they okay? They must be, surely. But...what if they're-

_they're-_

no. That's not a thing that is true, and it will not be ever.

Stupid, stupid. Of course they're okay. And it hasn't been three years. That's ridiculous and also impossible. Pesterchum just fucked up. It makes sense. The computer is old. Yes. Why would anyone panic about this blatant numbskullery?

A little beeping noise snaps you out of your thinkings, and you look around for its source. Your eyes fall on the computer, which has a Pesterchum chat window opened up on it. Someone is messaging you. See, your slight alarm earlier was nonsensical. Your friends are good and okay, and one of them is messaging you. You  _knew_ you were being ridiculous. Except, when you read the text in the window, you see that it's not one of your friends. It's not Rose, Dave, or Jade. 

 

carcinoGenetisist [CG] began trolling  ectoBiologist [EB]

CG: I'D BET YOUR NUMB PAN HASN'T A SINGLE FAINTLY FLICKERING FUCK OF AN IDEA WHAT IS GOING ON, HAS IT?

 

Who the hell is this? A fucking troll?  _Now_ , of all times?

Should you respond? You're not sure. On one hand, they _could_ help you...

 

EB: Uh...Who is this?

CG: TYPICAL, ASSUMING THAT AN INDIVIDUAL IS GOING TO TELL YOU SOMETHING JUST BECAUSE YOU ASKED ABOUT IT. WAKE UP, ASSHOLE. MOST PEOPLE DON'T SKIP AROUND HANDING OUT THEIR IDENTITIES TO EVERY CHUCKLEFUCK WHO ASKS ABOUT IT, YOU ACTUAL DIPSHIT.  


CG: IF YOU ABSOLUTELY REQUIRE AN ANSWER OF SOME SORT SO YOU DON'T NAG ME AND WASTE MY TIME WITH IT, LIKE I PREDICT YOU'LL DO; I'M TECHNICALLY YOUR LIFELINE. JOY TO THE FUCKING UNIVERSE, I KNOW.

EB: Okay, number 1, I literally just asked one question that I think anyone would ask right now! Jeez! 

EB: Number 2, what do you mean by lifeline? You're going to help me?

CG: THAT'S WHAT I WILL ATTEMPT TO DO. WHAT BECOMES OF MY ATTEMPTS ALL DEPEND ON WHETHER OR NOT YOU CONTINUE TO BE PAINFULLY STUPID AND CONTINUE TO ASK COMPLETELY INANE QUESTIONS. IT REALLY IS ENTIRELY UP TO YOU, ASSUMING YOU CAN HELP BEING UNCOOPERATIVELY PANLESS.

EB: Why are you just randomly attacking me? What did i do to you? Jesus fuck.

CG: WHAT, DO YOU THINK I HAVE ALL THE TIME IN THE UNIVERSE RIGHT NOW? EXCUSE ME FOR CURRENTLY HAVING INNUMEROUS THINGS ON MY MENTAL TASKLIST. STOP WASTING MY FUCKING TIME SO I CAN GET TO SAID TASKS, RATHER THEN WANT TO PUT MY PAINED HEAD THROUGH A GOGDAMN WALL.

EB: Okay...? Uh, back to the lifeline thing. Why are you helping me? I mean, you seem to just really hate me for some reason. Are you always this grumpy? Also, you haven't really told me what's happening.

CG: MAYBE YOU COULD INQUIRE A LITTLE LESS RIGHT NOW. I AM NOT "GRUMPY" AND THAT IS IRRELEVANT. THE ULTIMATE GOAL HERE IS TO GET YOU AND YOUR MORONIC FRIENDS TO THE RENDEZVOUS. SPECIFICS ARE UNDISCLOSABLE AT CURRENT TIME. ALL YOU ARE REQUIRED TO DO IS FOLLOW THE SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS YOU ARE PROVIDED WITH, AND THE TASK SHOULD GO SMOOTHLY. YOU SHOULD BE THANKFUL THAT YOU'RE EVEN BEING OFFERED THIS KIND OF ASSISTANCE, REALLY, AS I DO HAVE BETTER THINGS TO OCCUPY MYSELF WITH.

EB: My friends are alive?! Where are they?! Are they okay??

CG: I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING IDEA ABOUT THEIR VITAL STATES OR CURRENT ACTIVITIES. AGAIN, IRRELEVANT, I AM CONTACTING YOU RIGHT NOW.

EB: Oh...well, that brings me to another question, i guess.

CG: OH, JOY TO THE GOGDAMN UNIVERSE! ANOTHER INQUIRY, LITERALLY RIGHT AFTER I ORDERED YOU TO STOP MAKING THEM! WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE SUCH FORTUNE?

EB: What happened? How did i get here? Has it actually been 3 years??? Why is my last memory before getting here being in my room, 13 years old?

CG: "ANOTHER QUESTION". DO YOU KNOW HOW TO COUNT, DUMBASS? WERE YOU SCHOOLFED BASIC MATHEMATICS? THAT DOESN'T LOOK LIKE ONE QUESTION, IT LOOKS LIKE SEVERAL POINTLESS ONES.

CG: I DON'T HAVE THE TIME FOR THIS, EGBERT. NO FUCKING TIME. KEEP THE COMPUTERIZED DEVICE NEAR YOU, AS YOU WILL BE CONTACTED AT A LATER TIME, AND I WILL SUBJECT MYSELF TO MORE MENTAL AND PARTIALLY PHYSICAL AGONY.

EB: I...okay? Wait, how do you know my name? Uh, nevermind. You're just going to be weirdly mysterious for no reason.

EB: But wait! Before you go, i just have 2 more things to say. 1, if you're going to be my lifeline, we may has well kind of get along so getting me to this "rendezvous" isn't awful for both of us.

EB: 2, do you have a name? Like, something i can call you, since you're my "contact" and all?

CG: I HAVE NO INTEREST ON BEING FRIENDLY WITH YOU, EGBERT. AS FOR YOUR FINAL STUPID QUESTION, YOU WILL SIMPLY REFER TO ME AS "CG", IF YOU MUST.

CG: I'M LEAVING NOW. OH, AND IT SEEMS ONE OF YOUR FRIENDS IS ONLINE. PERHAPS DUMP ALL OF YOUR IDIOCY ON THEM NOW, SO THAT OUR NEXT CONVERSATION ISN'T PAINFULLY FULL OF IT.

carcinoGenetisist [CG] ceased trolling  ectoBiologist [EB]

 

The troll disconnects before you can say anything else, leaving you with more questions than answers, until one of the things they said registers in your head. One of your friends are online?  You quickly check your chumroll, and sure enough, Rose's chumhandle is marked as  _online_. Almost dropping the computer from your lap, you immediately rush to message her, overtaken with relief. At least one of your friends is confirmed okay, and that's better than none, you suppose.

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering  tentacleTherapist [TT]

EB: Rose?! Are you okay?? Do you know what's going on?? Please answer!

You wait for a few minutes, watching the screen intently for an answer. Come on, Rose. You really hope she's okay.

TT: John? Yes, I am alright, though admittedly a bit shaken. Do you have any recollection of events between you entering the medium and ending up here?

You let out a sigh of relief. She's contactable and alright. That's good. You quickly begin typing up a response.  
You feel a lot better, knowing your cool-headed and rational friend is able to be reached. Rose always manages to stay calm in any situation, while giving good and helpful advice. That would really be nice right now, because you feel very lost and very disoriented with this entire situation. Yes, having Rose here will definitely make things easier.

EB: No, I don't! I'm going to guess you don't, either?

TT: No. It feels as though it was hours ago, though my appearance and the timestamps on my pesterlogs suggest otherwise.

EB: What are you doing, where you are? Have you heard from the others? Do you think it's really been 3 years?

TT: I have just recently managed to power this laptop by means of connecting it to a nuclear battery, so no, i haven't.

TT: As for your other question, all evidence points towards some kind of amnesia case. Well, something similar to amnesia, but more peculiar.

EB: Jeez...that's not good.

EB: Oh, and another thing. I have an interesting and probably important thing to tell you.

TT: As have I, but I'll allow you to go first.

EB: Okay...here i go.

EB: So there's someone who goes by "CG", and they contacted me randomly after i got this random high-tech computer i found working, and they told me that they were going to be my lifeline or something, and that they're trying to get all 4 of us to this "Rendezvous" for some reason, and they also somehow know my name and are also really grumpy for some reason, and they're one of the trollers.

EB: And also i found a hammer with a note on it that led me to the computer and some backpack?? I don' know.

EB: But yeah, that's what's up with me.

TT: ...

TT: That is a lot of "ands".

EB: Oops...anyways, what about you? What did you want to say?

TT: I found evidence of other people roaming around here, a theory that you have confirmed true, with your being contacted by this "CG".

TT: With that, I also came across evidence that there are potentially hostile people or otherwise lurking around here. Where I am, it looks as though someone attempted to take shelter, before leaving in a hurry. There is also a strange substance that somewhat resembles blood splattered in a way that suggests a fight.

EB: Oh...........

TT: Yep.

EB: That's....really not good.

TT: No, rather concerning, which is why I advise you to be very careful and keep yourself armed.

EB: I'll...do that, definitely. What about you? Are you going to be okay?

TT: I think so, but I cannot be fully sure. I haven't come across anything or anyone dangerous yet. Still, I'll be cautious.

EB: All this danger stuff is making me kind of antsy. 

TT: Admittedly, I also find it somewhat worrying. I hope Strider and Harley are able to get in contact with us soon, so I may warn them about my findings.

EB: No kidding. I'd feel pretty awful if something happened to them, not that we'd really know if something did if they can't talk to us and all.

TT: I suppose all we can do right now is hope for the best.

EB: Yeah...

TT: I should probably get back to preparing myself for departure from the power-plant.

EB: Okay, if you need to. It'd be cool to talk to you a bit more, though, because I kind of feel like talking to someone who isn't all vague and angry.

TT: I suppose I can converse with you for a little longer, but it will be necessary for my survival to get scavenging some possible tools, so keep that in mind.

EB: Right, no problem. 

EB: So, like, you didn't really give me an in-depth answer to what you think happened to us. 

TT: Well, I don't necessarily have much information to go on, John. This entire situation really lacks context for now. I will need to seek out more clues for an explanation.

TT: Since we're continuing our conversation, I have something to ask, now, because it has been bothering me.

TT: Could you recount your conversation with CG to me? There could be information in it that you may have missed.

If anyone can decode that confusing set of capslock grey-text messages you received, it's Rose. You immediately open up your pesterlogs, preparing to copy and paste your conversation with CG to her. Perhaps Rose can shed some light upon this whole  _'mysterious lifeline internet troll'_ thing. You sure hope so. CG's short-lived talk with you left you with more questions than answers.

EB: Yeah, hold on one second, I'll get it...

 

 

**Dave== > Stay Calm**

 

Invalid.

You're always calm.

Calm and cool. 

The coolest.

You're repeating that in your head as you look around  ~~frantically~~ somewhat cautiously for the source of the movement you'd seen at the corner of your eye. You feel an overwhelming urge to get the fuck out of this place. You happily comply with said urge, gathering up you collected shit and looking for a good and cool escape from horror movie nightmare puppet house.

There's an issue, though. Your house is kind of standing alone, like an island of shittiness, on a rock pillar above some sinkhole that you don't really want to go spelunking in. Just a preference. Spelunking in potentially deadly sinkholes isn't a hobby of yours, really, not that you're judging potentially deadly sinkholes or their fanbases. They can do them, you'll do you.

More corner-of-eye movement.

_Hmm, yes, yeah, no._

_No thanks._

You speed up your ~~urgent~~ searching for a way out. You spot it out one of the windows. The radio tower thing is collapsed, making a bridge from your house's roof to sweet puppetless freedom. Looks good to you. Definitely a good and cool option, here.

More movement.

The hair on the back of your neck prickles in the way that you're sure pretty much everyone's does when they're being watched. You also, coincidentally, feel like you're being watched. You look around you, eyes scanning for any more signs of movement or anything that could possibly be watching you. Like, an entity. You count Cal as an entity. No, nothing so far, but your awful feeling of dread is really just getting worse, regardless. More movement. You think you hear something. Almost like laughter.  _Laughter_. What's so fucking funny, demon puppet? Being a creepy stalker ain't cool, dammit.

More of that horror movie shit. Movement. _Fuck, that was that?_ There's movement at the corner of your eye, accompanied by increasing dread and faint laughter. You hope it's just a fucking furby or something. Okay, maybe not. Furbies are definitely possessed and demonic in the worse of ways.

 You shake this awful feeling off as best you can, and decide to ignore the shittiness, like any smart horror movie character who totally doesn't get fucking murdered first. Well, what else can you do? You just need to get out, then you'll be out-of-home free, and no longer home stuck. You find that a bit funny for some reason, but aren't sure why. That was a fucking terrible joke, and anyone who thinks of it needs to reevaluate their life.

You're almost at the ladder to your roof. You're walking through the dark hallway leading to it, ignoring the slight uneasiness you're getting. You think you can hear breathing. No. No, don't think about it.

Eyes ahead, feet automated, hand on shitty sword hilt.

_Watching._

Monotonously keeping yourself on track and collected, cool.

_He's watching._

_No, no, no, no, no._

You're getting weird thoughts. You push them aside. Got no time for that bullshit.

_No, no, no, no, no NO, NO, NO._

_Watches._

_Human Eyes._

_no._

_He's got human eyes._

_He's looking right at me._

Got no time for that. Almost there. Your hand shakes a bit on the hilt of your sword, which you only half recognize is being clutched tightly by said hand.

_Make it stop._

_Eyes._

_Watching._

_No._

_NO._

_He's got eyes and he's looking at me._

_He's near._

_He sees._

_NO NO NO._

It stops when you reach the room where, if you cross it and get to the closet, you'll find the ladder to the roof. What it? You're not fully sure. All of the intrusive thoughts that you half payed attention to.

There's a hole in the ceiling, where some light shines in. It's quiet, here. Too quiet. Whatever. You make your way back to the roof ladder closet cautiously, in case you step on a weak spot on the floor.  You hear the noises again, suddenly. You see something moving. There's a shadow at the corner of your vision, darting to and fro every once and a while. 

Fuck this shit, you're almost at the la-

You see a blur right in front of you followed by a "whump" noise, as you stand now in the middle of the room, as though something was dropped in front of you. You look down, expecting it to be a piece of broken house, a stupid fucking puppet, or maybe...maybe Cal. You don't register what you're cooly glancing at for a moment. Then you do.

It's an arm.

_It's an arm._

It's a severed arm, still bloody and shit and it's bleeding onto the floor and it's obviously been cut off of by someone or something and you don't register your own horrified yelp at it.

You break into a sprint, racing into the closet and up the ladder, desperate to get out of this shithole, this nightmarish nopeland. Your breathing is lound and heavy and you can hear your own heart as though someone had taken it from your ribcage and put it against your ear, beating and everything. You run and you do not look back, not even when you reach the roof, breathing in the dry and dusty air that's refreshing to you after all of this. Without hesitation, you dart over to the collapsed radio tower thing, and prepare to officially nope the fuck out of nopeland.

Time for a 1st grade gymnastics program game of "balance on the beam", except above a sinkhole while possibly(?) being pursued by something/someone potentially deadly and human murdering. You can do this.

 

 

**Jade == > Stress**

 

Boy, are you stressing.

You're getting a bit of a headache...you should probably calm down, soon, unless you want to fall asleep on yourself.

 

**Rose == > ** **Attempt to convoy situation's graveness to John**

 

That did not go very well.

You have ended your pester session with John, and have now officially signed out to attend to your preparation for your first night here, a very precarious and thought-requiring ordeal.

It's already 4:30, which is still midday, but still.

You're not sure if you'll bother sleeping tonight, for security's sake.

You hope John is taking precautions, as well.

After a while of conversing with your friend, one thing has become very clear.

He doesn't seem to really take this seriously enough. Perhaps that wasn't the best choice of mental wording, bit it's the best you have, at present time. This entire situation is a life or death one, and he is treating it a bit like one of his movies's plotlines. Yes, he takes it...somewhat seriously? But he isn't acting like his decisions could potentially end his literal life. It crosses your mind that this is his way of coping with everything that has happened in this short four hour span, but realistically, unless he doesn't want to fall prey to the environment and other circumstances, it's a fact that he will need to start letting the cold graveness of your new reality.

As for the other issue on the table, the troll, you're not full sure what to make of it, yet. Not knowing things irritates you, but the only way for you to find out more about this mysterious and peculiar individual is to wait to get more instances of their character shown, so you'll need to wait before you can have an actual opinion.

And of course there's the disturbing findings you came across earlier, you most certainly have not forgot about that. Those...definitely give you more motivation to set everything (and yourself) up for tonight and its potential hazards.

All in all, you want to make it out, if there _is_ a way, of this alive, and you have the impression he does too. That is only going to be possible if he starts to see this for what it really is.

Real life and real death.

You have the feeling that it's going to be a long night.

...

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes the next chapter.  
> Future chapters are promised to be longer than this first few, this is assured.


End file.
